


Day Forty-Two

by takethesky87



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Groundhog Day, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 04:35:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4593045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takethesky87/pseuds/takethesky87
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If you’re trying to present me with evidence of your time-traveling, John,” Sherlock sneers, “you’ll need to do better than to point out the perfume bottles in the sink.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day Forty-Two

**Author's Note:**

> This is a small part of a long, sprawling story that I started years (!) ago but never finished. It was the first Sherlock fic I began writing; I've come to accept that I may never complete it. But there are many parts of what I _did_ write that I'm pretty happy with, including the excerpt below. Hopefully it stands on its own well enough.
> 
> Takes place sometime during series 2.

“Reliving the day.”

Sherlock is hunched over his microscope, though his eyes have flicked away from the eyepiece and are giving John a familiar look of incredulity. “Yes,” John says from the doorway. “Same day, over and over again. A time loop.”

“I see.” Sherlock returns to the microscope, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. John flexes his fingers at his sides. _Patience_ , he thinks. “And how often have you relived it, then?”

“Today would be day number forty-two,” John says. “So, for instance, at 9:31, it will be the forty-second time that Lestrade has called and asked you to meet him at Harvest Trust Bank about a homicide.” John nods to the petri dish beneath the microscope. “And this is the forty-second time you’ve studied the chemical makeup of three different kinds of perfume. Which is why this place stinks every morning, but I suppose there are worse things.”

“If you’re trying to present me with evidence of your _time-traveling_ , John,” Sherlock sneers, “you’ll need to do better than to point out the perfume bottles in the sink.”

Sherlock’s mobile rings. John almost misses the small crack in Sherlock’s demeanor as he glances at his wristwatch before reaching across the table. “Yes, what is it,” Sherlock says, mobile to his ear.

As he listens, his eyes rise to John. John meets the gaze, wondering how much of his own smugness is showing. “Alright,” Sherlock says to Lestrade. “Twenty minutes.”

John smiles as Sherlock slides his phone into his jacket pocket. “Shall I get the coats?”

\---

“You can stop gloating.” Sherlock is looking out the window of the cab, his face reflected in the glass. “That phone call proves absolutely nothing. Especially nothing about a—a _time loop_.” He shakes his head.

John sighs, running a hand over his hair. “Okay. When we get there, Lee lets us in. We meet Lestrade in the lobby, where he’s talking to Donovan. Lestrade says, ‘Morning, boys. This way,’ and leads us to the vault, where Anderson is going over his report. Then you say, ‘God, haven’t they sacked you yet?’ which sets Anderson off, and you two go at it for a bit before Lestrade breaks you up. Oh, here we are.” The cab has stopped at the corner. After paying the driver and retrieving the umbrellas from the seat, John meets Sherlock out on the pavement, where they walk together towards the roped-off entrance of the bank. John watches for signs in Sherlock’s expression as they approach Lee: focused, thinking hard, but otherwise inscrutable.

Lee nods and lifts the tape. Past the other uniforms outside, up the steps, through the glass doors—and there’s Lestrade near one of desks scattered about the lobby, talking to Donovan. Sherlock, still silent, goes to them, and John follows.

“Morning, boys,” Lestrade says. Donovan greets them both with a sour face. “This way.”

The four cross to the vault. Once inside, Anderson looks up, sees Sherlock, and groans. 

Sherlock opens his mouth, then closes it.

“What, no witty remark today?” Anderson says, folding his arms. “I’m offended.”

But Sherlock’s attention has drifted to John. John smiles, and a little thrill awakens in him. He can imagine what Sherlock is thinking: that John, somehow, has predicted what Sherlock was going to say, before even he knew he was going to say it.

“Shut up, Anderson,” Sherlock mutters belatedly. After a moment, he blinks and raises his chin, still looking at John, challenging him. When he speaks this time, his voice is low and calm, a willful glint in his eye. “I thought they’d have sacked you by now.”

Anderson bristles. “Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Sorry to disappoint.”

“At least I have something to look forward to.”

“Alright, enough, you two.” Lestrade nods to Anderson. “Give him some room, yeah?”

With a sniff and a dramatic roll of his eyes, Anderson steps back, allowing Sherlock to crouch and begin his examination of the body lying on the floor. When he’s done, Donovan hands him the evidence bag with the dead man’s wallet. “Care to give us your medical opinion, John?” he says as he rips open the bag. There’s much more derision in his voice than usual.

“That’s unnecessary,” Anderson says, “I have the report right here. Shot in the head—”

“Your opinion is worth less to me than the paper it’s written on.” Sherlock gives John a smirk very like the one that tugged at his mouth in the kitchen this morning. “John?” 

John kneels by the body and goes through the motions of his own exam, then rises and rattles off his part of the script.

“Cause of death is the shot to the head, of course. Hasn’t been dead for long, maybe five or six hours. So that puts time of death early this morning, say, 5:30.” When Anderson mutters, “That’s _exactly_ what I wrote in my report,” John twitches but lets it go, watching him sulk out of the room.

“Kian Pritchard, thirty-eight,” Lestrade says. “One of two men who broke in overnight. We’ve got both on CCTV outside the building.”

“So the other one panics, shoots Pritchard, and runs off.” Sherlock hands the evidence bag and wallet back to Donovan without looking at her. “You already have the dead man’s wallet and identification. Tell me again why you called, Lestrade? These amateurs have provided you plenty of leads. This is a waste of my time.”

“Amateurs?”

“Obviously. I’m sure you’ve dusted the vault door for fingerprints; your killer was probably careless enough to—”

“No, no fingerprints. That’s why you’re here, Sherlock. The vault door never opened. We have security footage from the entire night—no door, no window, _nothing_ in the whole building was opened.”

Sherlock’s tone is dismissive, but there’s a glint in his eye now. “Impossible.”

It’s John’s turn. He points to the dead body. “Then how did he get here?”

“That’s the mystery, ain’t it,” Lestrade says. “Let me show you the tapes. Donovan, check on Hendrick’s progress with the security guard, will you?”

They leave the vault and enter the vast lobby. Just a few steps away at a desk, two of Lestrade’s men are huddled around a laptop. As John and Sherlock approach, the black-and-white playback of four security videos fills the screen.

John steps back to make room for Sherlock. The latter points to a video feed on the bottom right. “The security guard?”

“Yeah.” Lestrade tells the two police officers to busy themselves elsewhere, and they do, leaving John, Sherlock, and Lestrade hovering over the desk. “He says he was posted there from midnight on, and the footage confirms it. Insists he didn’t see a thing or hear any shots. When he noticed the body on the vault’s camera he called it in, but that was the first he saw or heard of anything.

“Now, look at this.” He pushes a few keys on the keyboard, and all four feeds rewind to 5:23 a.m. “See, there they are outside the building. They’re wearing ski masks and looking down the whole time, but you can tell from this bloke’s size that he’s the one lying dead in the vault. They stand around for a bit, then at 5:25—” he clicks, and the video speeds forward— “the one on the right, Pritchard, pulls something out of his pocket. Watch the video in the vault.”

Sherlock does, steepling his fingers over his lips. John has seen this part enough times to have it memorized, so he watches Sherlock’s face instead. It’s subtle, but Sherlock’s eyes narrow ever so slightly when the body appears on the vault floor.

“You see that?” Lestrade says. He plays it back again. “They bloody disappear from here—” he points to the feed outside the building, where the two men have literally disappeared into thin air— “and an instant later, the big guy’s suddenly in the vault, dead on the floor. No movement anywhere else in the building. Nothing.”

“You think the video has been tampered with.”

“’Course, it has to have been, but what about the vault door being sealed shut? No forced entry? Two seconds ago they were outside, and now one of them is on the opposite end of the building and bleeding.”

“Could there be three men?” John asks on his cue.

“Yeah, maybe, but this one is still pulling a Houdini showing up in that vault. And they didn’t even steal anything. All the money’s still there.” Lestrade crosses his arms and looks at Sherlock. “A perfect break-in at a high-security bank, and you think they’re amateurs.”

“They are.” 

Lestrade sighs. “You’re going to have to explain it, Sherlock. I’m not following.”

“Honestly, Lestrade, this is an easy one.” Sherlock begins his pacing outside the vault door. If he’s still thinking about John and the time loop, he doesn’t show it. “Let’s start with—”

“Sherlock.” John touches a hand to Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock stops, glaring at John, who musters a smile. “You mind if I … give it a go?”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. “A go?”

“At the deduction.”

He narrows his eyes, lips puckering with suspicion. Then, at length, he flicks his hand in assent.

John clears his throat as Sherlock steps away, his arms crossed and nose angled high in the air. Lestrade inches forward, looking a bit bewildered.

John leans against the doorframe. “Let’s start with the shoes. Oxfords, typical of an office worker, with heavy soles and an elevated heel. All wrong for a break-in. How does he walk without making noise or leaving scuff marks? Then the wallet, complete with driving license, credit cards, his therapist’s number, and a photo of his wife and three children. Idiotic things to bring to a crime.”

John points to the dead man’s hands. “Look at his fingers: small and stubby, incapable of the dexterity required for a lock-picker. And there’s nothing under that fat to indicate he’s the muscle of this operation, either. So what’s his role? Incompetent lackey? Robbing a bank with this much security would necessitate carefully timed movements from the burglars, yet his watch is analog with no second hand. _Oh, but Sher_ —no, sorry— _Oh, but John, couldn’t he have used a stopwatch or his phone?_ Of course—except he still had his wallet. Why would the killer take the stopwatch or the phone but leave the wallet? He’s wearing all black, but his shirt is inside-out, you can see the logo through the front. Wouldn’t someone who’s done this before own plain black clothing? White socks: his black socks weren’t clean. This was done in haste. Stealing from a bank like this one would take weeks of planning, yet his washing isn’t done.”

When he pauses to look around, something satisfyingly warm curls in his stomach. Sherlock’s eyes are wider than John has ever seen them. He can’t help but grin before turning to Lestrade. “Okay, now you say …?”

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade says.

“No, no. You have a question, yeah? Let’s hear it.”

Lestrade’s eyes dart between Sherlock and John, his face stretching into an uncertain smile as he stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Right, I don’t know what you two’re playing at, but—right. Fine. I do have a question. Couldn’t the killer have been the pro?”

“Oh yes, _clearly_. Er, sorry for the sarcasm.” John frowns and clears his throat. “The professional who leaves behind his partner’s wallet but still has time for a clean getaway? Even in a rush, a seasoned criminal would at least check the man’s pockets before getting out. No, they’re both amateurs. Oh—and the murderer is a marksman, given the clean shot through the head. I get fuzzy on the wording in this bit, but the reasoning is that he did it in one shot, plus most people aim for the chest, not between the eyes.” He nods. “Okay, I’m done. You’ve one more thing to show us, right, Lestrade?”

Lestrade starts. “Yeah, I do, actually. Here.” He waves them back to the desk and clicks around on the laptop. As John walks over, he looks back, finding Sherlock a few paces behind. “You give as good a show as he does,” Lestrade says to John, cocking his head at Sherlock. “Did he put you up to this?”

“Something like that.” He tilts his head at the laptop. “Well?”

Lestrade clicks, and the image of a metal, egg-shaped object fills the screen. “Something Anderson found on the ground outside. We think it’s what one of our burglars took out of his pocket before they entered the building.”

Sherlock drifts to John’s side, eyes fixed on the metal egg. The shock has washed away from his face, replaced by the hard, inscrutable look from earlier this morning. He turns that look on John, who meets it squarely as Sherlock addresses Lestrade. “You’ll let me examine it.”

“Yeah, ‘course. It’s on its way to forensics already, but once they’re done, you can have at it. If you drop by Barts in an hour, I’ll have it ready for—hey! A ‘Thanks, see you later’ would be nice!”

“Sorry,” John says quickly before jogging to catch up with Sherlock, who has darted out of the bank without a word. 

Once outside the police tape, Sherlock raises an arm to hail a cab. “I suppose you want lunch,” he mutters, sliding in to the waiting taxi. John follows, nodding, and gives the address to the café. 

As the cab pulls away, Sherlock stares straight ahead, fingers pressed below his chin. John considers him, unsure what to do. “Sherlock,” he says eventually, an apology in his voice.

“Shut up,” Sherlock snaps.

They spend the rest of the trip in silence. Not until they have settled at their table in the café and John has ordered a toastie does Sherlock lift his eyes to him and say, “You never saw that wallet.”

John finishes swallowing a gulp of tea. “Sorry?”

“The dead man’s wallet.” Sherlock wraps his fingers around his mug and leans forward. “You listed off the contents—driving license, credit cards, the therapist’s card, the family photograph—but you never touched that evidence bag. This suggests two immediate conclusions. One, you visited the crime scene sometime prior to this morning. Two, you were part of the crime itself.”

John raises an eyebrow. “You think I robbed a bank?”

“No.” Sherlock brings his cup to his lips. “From three o’clock this morning until you woke up at quarter past eight, you were too busy snoring to break into any banks.”

“Wonderful. So you’re cataloguing my sleeping habits now. Remind me to never ask you what else you do while I’m not awake.”

Sherlock ignores him. “Which leaves the first conclusion, that you had already visited the crime scene. But that collapses under scrutiny as well—there were no tells from Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan, or anyone else that you had been there before we arrived. No tells, except from you.”

“That’s because I _have_ been there before. You just don’t want to believe the reason why.”

Sherlock makes a face. “This is absurd.”

“But it’s the truth. What is it that you like to say? ‘Whatever’s left after removing the impossible must be true’?”

“Time travel generally falls into the ‘impossible’ category,” Sherlock remarks.

“Normally, I’d agree with you.” John takes a bite out of his sandwich, then glances at his watch. “Okay, how’s this. In less than a minute, it’s going to start to rain. I don’t think there’s anyone in the world who could predict the weather that accurately, is there?”

Sherlock answers with a glare. But he does turn around to face the windows. John holds out his wrist and, as the time looms closer, starts to count down. “Four, three, two, one …”

Tiny droplets hit the glass, then streaks of water, and then the muffled roar of pounding rain echoing down from the roof. Sherlock twists back around. With a sigh, he drops his head into his hands, rubbing his eyes. “This is theoretically improbable, at best,” he mumbles. “There has to be another explanation.”

“This coming from the man who didn’t know the earth went around the sun. What do _you_ know about time travel?”

Sherlock drops his arms. “More than you do.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. When’s the last time you repeated the same day forty-two times in a row?” He points to a table by the windows. “That woman in the pink skirt? She just came in from the rain. When she stands up to use the loo, she slips on the wet floor, and the man she’s with catches her by the arm and they both laugh.” 

And so it happens. She stands, she slips, he catches—Sherlock turns back to John as the couple are laughing. “The busboy behind me,” John continues, “spills a glass of water as he’s cleaning up.” He hears the telltale clink of glass against table. “Our waitress, to your left, is bringing that bowl of soup to the man eating alone at the booth beneath the clock. Someone in the kitchen is going to laugh now.” He waits for the high-pitched giggle to come, then points up. “Thunder.” A rumble breaks through the clamor of the downpour. “That’s the only time it will thunder all day. Shall I keep going?”

“No.” Something has crept into Sherlock’s expression that John has never seen before. “John,” he says. His chest deflates with a heavy sigh. “You’re asking me to put aside everything I know, everything that I believe in, and to trust you.”

John nods. “Yes, I am.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, and for a long moment he remains quiet and still. Then, finally: “Christ, this is … Christ. Alright.” He opens his eyes again and looks at John. “So what have you learned so far about our killer?”

John beams at him.


End file.
